In thinking of the days yet to never arrive

Various words reached far into the tendrils of my half-intoxicated limbic imagination

It was all an innocent beginning quite auspicious for the time of morning

Impossible to ever list the sensory overloads captured in a single photo of her

And behind it lies a patchwork quilt of denials and fabrications

Autumn came early that year, and with it the recriminations of older memory

Such a horrible lie to all I see that I fear I may not even know myself anymore

Farther on along down that way it can be seen in evidence

That summer is not to be had in this parallel way of inverse truth

There will be no banquets when we arrive,

No singing, no dance

Only the eternal burning of our buried hatred released in a spontaneous moment of

Pain

Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.